


Reweaving

by DreamNation



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Cuties, Prudie is an angel, Ross finally understands, because I need reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamNation/pseuds/DreamNation
Summary: "All she be doin' is tryin' a love ye. Which you make ver' hard."





	Reweaving

**Author's Note:**

> My first Poldark fiction because I cannot wait another year before season four (why do the Brits get it first!?)  
> Can also be found on Fanfiction.net under my same username!

Ross Poldark has never understood _love_.

The concept, the word, the notion; it was a foreign thing to him. 

 

Of course, his mother and father loved him. Dearly so, in fact. But for _him_ to love, for him to truly adore someone with his entire being, now that was a alien idea.

Until now.

-&-

"That there maid 'o yours has been stockpiling all this for 'er Christmas, I dare say!"

The man prowled over to the open cache and took a glimpse inside. 

"You said Demelza has been doing this?"

The fat housemaid whirled, smacking a hand down on the oak table. 

"Why, I as sure as the Devil! That there cabinet has been holding goods for the better part 'o six months! I ne'er for the light in me eyes expected ye to not know!"

 

His eyes stroked over every fine detail, every curve of a honey-pot and sack of pie flour.

"If only yer'd been there for it. Ye shoulda seen 'er, luggin' sacks and such for days. The whole time, mutterin' 'bout how she'd make 'er last Christmas a good one."

He turned on his heels, watching the woman plop down onto the wooden bench and stare expectantly at him.

"Well? Yer' gonna pour some brandy wine for I or just sit there 'ike a pritty fool?"

He walked over to the adjacent bench and sat, throwing his hat into the corner. 

"I suppose I have been quite negligent these past few weeks. It's just.."

"Nay!! Tis not be, "I suppose" or "it's just,"!! Your wife 'ha been sittin', cooped up in this house for too long, and all she be doin' is tryin' a love ye. Which you make ver' hard."

As he sat there in his childhood home, pouring brandy for his housemaid in the cold December night air, he made a realization. 

He had married a stubborn, irrational, iron-willed woman. A woman who had tried to save her dog from being killed off. A woman who had been beaten and demeaned and had come out the other side alive, unscathed, and powerful.

 

_Powerful._

And he had ignored her.

"Oh, come 'n then!" The old woman pushed her hand on the bottom of the glass, startling Ross out of his reverie, and splashed more of the liquid into her cup.

 

''Tis more 'ike it." She said, grasping the cup and taking a gulp.

"So, what 'tis the High 'n Mighty Poldark 'onna do?"

 

He shook his head, staring into the seemingly bottomless pit of alcohol sitting in his cup. It would be so easy to drown in it; to let it carry his problems- no, his pain- off into the great abyss and let him live in peace.

But if he did that, she would be lost forever.

So, gathering his hat and parcel, up he went, ascending the stairs of his childhood home, prepared to begin reweaving his relationship with the love of his life.

 


End file.
